Order
by TheDailyPotterhead
Summary: When one sees inconsistencies and harbors doubts, one often ends up either uncovering well-layered, hidden ploys or more often than never, falling into the category of paranoid. Dora was willing to take her chances, for satiating her thirst for explanations outweighed the prospect of being labeled as paranoid. She was odd and clumsy and paranoid didn't sound all that out of place.
1. Prologue

"Sit."

It was all the encouragement she needed, and Tonks collapsed onto the plushy contours of the expensive sofa, arms limp by her side and head resting on the back of the seat. She didn't quite care that her muddy combat boots and soiled clothes were a ghastly out-of-place addition to the general spotlessness of the high-end hotel suite, or that she ought to be at the hospital for a couple days more. There was so much to be done in so little time and she had hardly the energy to overcome the aching of her bones. An immense weariness descended upon her as one by one the memories of the past year resurfaced. Tonks let out a shaky breath. The woman who had given the command pursed her lips grimly but made no comment.

Her black pumps tapped against the hard tiled floor as she walked to the coffee table, upon which sat a steaming kettle and two tea cups. There was silence other than the noise of liquid being poured, and the sharp screech of glass rubbing against glass as the cup and saucer was pushed in her direction. Dora mustered the energy to lift her head. She was met by the solemn face of the woman who had brought her here, gazing intensely at Dora was an indiscernible look.

"Here," she said, voice softer.

She eyed the tea wearily. "Thanks."

The other woman nodded. Dora reached for the cup, and held it gingerly in her palm, letting the heat waft over her tired face. Earl Grey. Remus's favorite.

A different kind of pain tore through her being. Remus...Sirius...

She didn't dare continue the though.

"Whenever you're ready, Miss Tonks."

The woman sat back in the chair, gripping the arms. Her immaculate hair, twisted above her head, her clean, neat blue suite and her dolled face made her blend into the London crowd perfectly, but she was no Muggle. A quill and parchment hovered expectantly next to her head and her eyes shone with the fear, bitter acceptance and dark foreboding that Dora knew was reflected in her own eyes as well as the eyes of every witch and wizard who knew, had always known, deep in their hearts, that You-Know-Who was back.

War was upon them, and the world had finally accepted with dawning horror that it was inevitable, that it always had been inevitable.

"I'm ready," Tonks said grimly. A heavy silence followed as she closed her eyes and made herself recall every moment of plagued uncertainty and hopeless desolation, every minor victory and devastating loss of the last entire year, from the very first breath Scrimgeour had taken as he stood before the entire Auror Office last summer to address the issue of Cedric Diggory's death to the very last breath Sirius took as he disappeared behind the wretched veil and vanished before her very eyes.

She was finally ready to speak. It was high time the truth was told.

"Alright," she said, mouth dry, heart pounding, "It began a year and two weeks ago..."


	2. Trigger

Rufus Scrimgeour was towering behind his podium at the front of the massive hall like a massive gnarly statue that had been erected for the purpose of throwing a grim shadow across the room. The windowless room was structured with dusty grey stones and lit methodically by periodically placed lanterns. The graduated rows of semicircular seats made it taller than it was deep, and yet it gave the impression of being the single largest room in the building. The Aurors filed in through the entrance, filling in the benches starting from the very back of the room by order of seniority. Dora saw that a good number of folks from her department had turned up; mostly new recruits, but some of the more senior members in their sweeping magenta robes were also occupying the back-most benches. They towered above the rest of the occupants with a severe kind of solemnity, leaning towards each other and whispering with urgency.

There was an accompanying sense of foreboding with this observation, and, pushing past gaggles of young Aurors, she slipped in quietly next to Bert in the second row.

"What do you reckon?" She muttered as people took their seats around them in a hushed bustling. Scrimgeour continued to stand stonily and watch over the proceedings.

He gave her a sidelong glance. "Rather obvious. It's about the Diggory Case."

The Diggory Case was, logically, the only Ministry concern that could've demanded an immediate Auror debriefing session. It had hit the papers a week ago; the only articles The Prophet was running currently revolved around the rumors surrounding the death of Cedric Diggory and the dramatic culmination of the Triwizard Tournament. It was chaotic at the Ministry and people were thrown into a frenzy. The Department of International Magical Cooperation was currently a harrowing place to be, what with the unending discussions and debates regarding the continuation of the Triwizard Tournament, and the sight of foreign wizarding government officials striding in and out of the Ministry door became familiar to Ministry employees. In addition, the unexpected disappearance and presumed death of their most senior member, Barty Crouch Sr. was a crippling blow to the already unstable Ministry Department. Fudge was cast dubious looks by both the Bulgarian and French Ministers. The Auror Office had also been involved in the investigations surrounding Cedric Diggory's death, though come to think of it, Dora realized, only the top officials seemed to be invested in the inquiries. The staff at St. Mungos had been given permission to determine the cause of death of Cedric Diggory, yet they refused to pass comment on whatever their findings happened to be. Fudge had made a number of public appearances, assuring the crowds that things were being sorted out, and yet, the people could sense a chunk of information was being withheld.

And then there was Dumbledore. And of course, Harry Potter.

That's when things got slightly messier.

It was a rather paramount issue, and the scandal behind Alastor Moody's abduction was the most alarming of its kind that the Auror's had come across since the last war, but it was Dumbledore's interpretation and dubious explanation of all that had passed which had somehow cast an ominous air over it all that the Ministry was attempting its best to dispel. There was a lot of talk about Harry Potter as well, though oddly enough, the mass media did not quote him. In fact, he had mysteriously been indisposed of since the end of term at Hogwarts, and this perhaps may have done more damage than good, for now the press was free to interpret his silence in whatever way they pleased.

But Dumbledore was more vocal than ever before, and some of the things he had said recently in the papers…

Dora didn't get the time to dwell further on this, for at that moment, the people in the hall fell into a hush, and all eyes were trailed on Rufus Scrimgeour as he met their gaze dead on.

When he spoke, his voice boomed through the hall.

"It is with a great sense of grim premonition that I summon all of you here today. As you might have inferred, the purpose of this convention does not fall under standard debriefing, but that there is a matter at hand, a grave issue, that requires urgent addressing."

Scrimgeour let his words sink in and draw out the stirring curiosity of his audience. The fresh batch of Aurors leaned forward in their seats, caught up in the excitement of the gravity of what they were hearing. Scrimgeour's lips pursed as his menacing gaze swept across the length of the hall before he continued in his gruff, deeply impacting voice.

"You have heard, of course, of the recent events that found their venue at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry not more than a week ago; the regrettable and wholly unexpected death of seventh-year student Cedric Diggory during the final task of the Triwizard Tournament, as well as the illegal detainment and impersonation of Auror Alastor Moody, to name a few. Not to mention, the regrettable disappearance of Mr. Barty Crouch Senior a month ago, of whose whereabout we have yet to discern. The Ministry, as you know, has been investing all of its wholehearted efforts in restoring order and providing satisfactory reasoning for and justice to the situation.

"However. We are not wholly united as a wizarding community. While differences of opinion are always to be expected for the healthy functioning of any society, a radical, illogical and unchecked spread of dissent can undermine our government and cast our country into instability. With this in mind, the Ministry is highly concerned regarding the published word of certain legion of people who do not appreciate our efforts in dealing with this crisis, and find themselves of the opinion that our interpretation of these regrettable, though entirely accidental events provided by the Ministry, is not sufficient in their explanation. As such, you may hear alternative accounts of how these events unfolded that are, after thorough examining, far-fetched, and though you may be tempted to accept their verity by virtue of the good reputation of their speakers, I strongly advise you to think on your own two feet and decide for yourselves what is or is not true.

"The guilty persons who have made such heightened claims are people who the Ministry has always had the utmost respect for. Yet there are instances, unfortunately such as this one, where we must beg to differ and fight irrationality with logical steadfastness. The Ministry has taken a stance, therefore, against these claims, and attempts have been made to implore the opposing faction into adopting reasonable thought. However, the aforementioned group of legion of people has started to develop more…radical methods of resistance and opposition which the Ministry highly disproves."

He cast a penetrating gaze across the room, the muscles in his jaw twitching as he gripped the edge of the podium in his bear-like hand. Aurors exchanged glances. The expression on the faces of the senior officers darkened considerably. Scrimgeour continued forcefully.

"As harbingers of peace and safety, it is our duty to debunk falsities, some of which are of a magnitude that could potentially deal a crippling blow to the very pillars of our government. In the process of carrying out our duty to society, we may find ourselves face to face with men and women, the brilliance of whom though is not in doubt, who have previously fought by our sides in the face of a threat to our common world and yet presently refuse to cooperate with our efforts. I implore you, then, not to give in to bouts of sentimentality, but to adopt a stoic resolution to stand your ground till reasonability is restored, as painful as it might be, for our cause tends to that of the good of society, and it would do you well to remember that.

"With that thought in mind, I would like to present you with the brief and true account of that which had occurred on the 24th of June this very year."

He paused after his long tirade to look them all in the eye. His stance was suddenly less defensive and more clipped and he spoke with detached interest. A scary sort of silence swept the room as the attention of all converged on the man speaking. The importance of what he was about to say was not lost on Dora; this was the very first account of the incidents that they would be hearing straight from the mouth of the Ministry. What Scrimgeour said to them now was crucial, almost pivotal; the fate of the Ministry rested on what stance they had chosen to take on the issue.

"Choosing not to address the irregularity of the number, as per the Triwizard Tournament rules four chosen champions had their names selected by the Goblet of Fire at the beginning of the academic year. These four champions, having successfully completed the first two tasks, where scheduled for the third task on the 24th of June; a maze of hedges harboring basic, Ministry-approved obstacles to be fought against and defeated in order to secure the prize at the end – the Triwizard Cup. Out of the four that entered this maze, two returned in defeat at the end of twenty minutes, which left two more – Cedric Diggory and Harry Potter - to persevere at the task.

"It so happens, reasons at first unfathomable yet consequentially revealed, that sometime during the duration of the task, Cedric Diggory met with a fatal accident. It has been concluded that he was physically hurtled at great velocity during a confrontation with a sphinx, collided with a hard surface, and suffered from a head injury that lead to his subsequent and immediate death. Harry Potter, who was quite understandably shaken by the entire ordeal, appeared with Diggory's body at the head of the maze along with the Triwizard Cup, following which Ministry officials at the scene immediately took control of the situation.

"As it happened, another unfortunate turn of events was revealed the very same day, and I speak of the impersonation of Auror Moody, who had been abducted from his home before the beginning of his teaching term at Hogwarts. It was confirmed on questioning and investigation that Mr. Moody had been detained against will for the duration of the year by Barty Crouch Jr., previously thought to have died in Azkaban."

In spite of having read about the same countless times in the paper, the sensational nature of this development still inspired a few heads to shake in awe at Scrimgeour's words.

"To make this deduction more lucid, I take you back a couple of years to the event of the execution of Barty Crouch Jr. The Wizangamot had sentenced him to lifetime imprisonment, under the order of Barty Crouch Sr. himself, and as per records, Mr. Crouch Jr. died during his sentence at Azkaban. It was found that Mrs. Ulga Crouch had surreptitiously and illegally taken the Polyjuice Potion and impersonated her delinquent son. Barty Crouch Jr. was taken home the same day as Ulga Crouch was imprisoned under his name and face, and he was tended to in clandestine by his father for the years that followed.

"In the past year, Mr. Crouch Junior abducted Auror Moody, and took a place amongst the staff of Hogwarts School under guise. His motives are believed to be fueled by the instability of his mental health, which was in the least, questionable. However, it is quite clear that he sought to harm Mr. Harry Potter and having failed in this particular aspect, attempted to attack the Minister of Magic on being approached, and for the security and well-being of the Minister, the Dementors were released upon him. He was bestowed with The Kiss."

There was another tiny outburst of murmurs. Dora exchanged a significant look with Bert, who had the same questions and baffled surprise etched in his eyes. Scrimgeour overrode their mutterings easily with his thundering voice.

"He is currently and permanently of no further use or value to our investigation. It was a very fortunate coincidence, then, that we do not require his input to aid our inquiry into the Diggory Case for it has been established that there is no connection between the two, nor is there any connection with the death of Barty Crouch Senior, who was confirmed to have gone senile before his death, having displayed questionable behavior even before his disappearance. However, Headmaster Albus Dumbledore and Mr. Harry Potter continue to claim that the two have a very definite coexistence, that Barty Crouch Junior killed his father, who was being controlled by a powerful exterior force and that Cedric Diggory was murdered, both of which accounted for by none other than You-Know-Who himself."

The entire hall gave a collective, violent jerk, but nobody spoke, wildly unsure what they were to say if they did decide to open their mouths. You-Know-Who? The name had died a decade ago along with now-forgotten and eagerly buried terrors of his return. But it was no use denying that the last four years since Harry Potter entered Hogwarts had seen a timeline of increasingly abnormal events unfold in the wizarding community and at Hogwarts. Hushed talks of You-Know-Who's return had sprung up in public, but people turned a blind eye to these claims. They were a long-shot, and nobody who had lived through the war wished to even consider having to revert back to the blinding fear of living under You-Know-Who's reign. The comfort offered by denial had a tendency to cloud the rational mind and deflect attention from the frightening prospect of weighing the possibilities of his return being the truth.

Scrimgeour however, seemed perfectly calm in the face of this macabre declaration. "Understandably, the Ministry does not find any reasonable requirement to believe or fuel such claims, brash and untrue as they are. Our investigations, aided by the brightest and most capable force under our employment, has agreed that there is nothing to substantiate this thesis in any way. We thus have a good reason to believe that Mr. Potter and Mr. Dumbledore have ulterior motives, and we urge you to put it out of your mind."

"_What?"_

Bert immediately jabbed Dora in the ribs, hissing at her to hush as people whirled around to stare at her, some in disapproval and some in tacit agreement with her sentiments. But Dora couldn't care less, her mind whirred in shocked disbelief. Ulterior motives? Dora stared at the shadowy figure of Scrimgeour incredulously, wondering if she was actually hearing correctly. But Scrimgeour plowed on, oblivious to the bewilderment of his audience and he threw out his winning lines magnificently and with emotion.

"The Auror Department has been graced with the presence of an uncountable number of venerable witches and wizards, all whom have stepped up to the mantle with noble intentions and lasting visions of the betterment of society. The men and women who have fought with the intention of laying down nothing less than their lives had a clear sense of judgment and no room for pity or violent romanticism to mar their reasoning. These are the men and women whose ideas and memories continue to inspire our Department to strive for the best, day by day so that our loved ones and the children of our nation can sleep in peace. We are the ancestors of a great and powerful line of wizarding Aurors. I call upon that very judgment today, I beseech you to evoke that rationality that they treasured within them and treasure it within you, treasure that spirit that has kept this department, this Ministry, this world on its feet and I ask you to question that which has always been taken for granted as correct, turn it in your minds, and arrive at a conclusion as to where your loyalties truly lie."

The silence was deafening at this point. Scrimgeour's face twisted in a menacing scowl.

"And for the sake of our Ministry, I hope you choose well. You are dismissed."

* * *

Dora frowned, leaning back in her chair.

She went over the Diggory Case in her mind for the umpteenth time. It was rather rough around the edges, not a smoothly wrapped case sans doubts and flaws in reasoning such as was usually expected from Rufus Scrimgeour. He was not the Head of the Auror Office for no reason. His legendary perfectionism and ruthless dedication to it set an example for everybody. True, they hadn't finished their enquiry into it, but there were certain points and courses of action that had been taken which struck Dora as rather…unusual.

Then there was Dumbledore and the Potter boy, who presented another vague theory, rather outlandish, but it was a theory all the same, and basic auror training demanded that all theories be considered possibilities and remain so until firmly proven as fallacious. Never leave a kink in the wire or your contraption will fail. Basic auror training.

It was rather doubtful, she felt, that Dumbledore was heading a clandestine operation behind such a heavy excuse. The idea of Dumbledore running a sort of secret underground organization to topple the Ministry made her snort to herself at the ridiculousness. He didn't _need_ to be tactful; he could break into Fudge's office and turn him into a peacock without a scratch on his own skin. Yes, in her mind, that was quite, quite heavily in doubt. From the ample time spent in Dumbledore's office and the occasional sentencing to Fudge's office she had two very distinct images of both. Fudge struck her as somebody who was hungry to use power he could not wield, while Dumbledore quite clearly had power that he did not normally want to use.

Yet the alternative was rather formidable as well – that Dumbledore was right. That You-Know-Who had returned.

She continued to mull the case over in her head, running her metaphorical fingers across its metaphorical existence, and frowning each time she felt unfamiliar patterns, breaches, and irregular topography. There were holes, tiny bite-sized holes, but they gnawed at her peace of mind till all she found herself thinking of were those tiny little holes all the time.

She had approached Bert about them, but he had waved her off in disinterest, reading some new book by the Lupin man that had sanctioned his undivided attention for the week. She needed another mind to apply its intelligence on the conclusions she drew in case she had missed some crucial bit that could perhaps placate her doubts. That was when she came up with a simple experiment. Aided with the knowledge that the move would result in her win whatever be the outcome, she had carried out her simple experiment and had run into a dead end.

But this dead end was exactly what she had been waiting for. She'd approached a notoriously Ministry-worshipping friend in the Department, and, with a few well-placed, probing questions regarding the Diggory case, found herself in a situation that she had not only predicted, but one that watered the doubts and uncertainty she was nursing till they blossomed and established fixture in the garden of her mind, making her even more determined to get to the bottom of this. The dead end manifested itself as Rufus Scrimgeour and a very, very odd reaction he had expressed regarding her enquiries into the case.

He had been severely displeased, almost angry, that she had abandoned the work given to her and dallied about poking her nose in a case which was obviously being taken care of, or 'did she doubt the proficiency of the Ministry'? Did she, a young auror fresh out of training (one year, actually, sir, Dora had interrupted) think that she would do better at solving the case than the whole task force of men and women who had been undertaking such cases for the better part of their lives?

'No', she had mumbled, and her mind whirred with this new development, the oddity of his reaction which she found was uncalled for when all she had done was ask a few harmless questions. Cases were discussed openly in their Department like the weather, more frequently than the latter, in fact, and how could the Head Auror expect a case of this magnitude to not be discussed, dissected and analyzed by people who were trained to do just that?

She was intrigued.

After that, she did not approach anybody. She knew Scrimgeour would be watching her closely for days, but she gave the appearance of having lost interest. She hazarded a guess that she wouldn't be trailed for long however, for nosy rookie aurors was hardly the most pressing things on Scrimgeour's mind.

What WAS on his mind then? Dora found herself wondering as she watched him clamber around the hall shaking his mane, if the case is settled and quite confidently dealt with, then what bothered him so?

Perhaps not a very valid question, for he was the Head of the Auror Department after all, but when one sees inconsistencies and harbors doubts, one often ends up either uncovering very well-layered and hidden ploys or more often than never, falling into the category of paranoid.

Dora was willing to take her chances, for satiating her thirst for explanations far outweighed the prospect of being labeled as paranoid. She was odd and clumsy and paranoid didn't sound all that out of place amidst these descriptive words.

Estimating that she had given the incident with Scrimgeour a wide enough berth, she made up her mind to pick up where she had left off.

And thus, she set out on her Quest to Fulfill her Thirst.


	3. Escalation

**June 25th, 1995**

**Sunday, 10:21 a.m.**

**London**

"Not that you're unwelcome, but why are you here?"

To anybody else witnessing this exchange from a perspective that did not belong to either participants in the conversation, they might have been compelled, and even right, to reach for the phone and dial for professional help. Indeed, even if the large black dog at the doorstep had taken his human form, it would still have been much a cause of concern, seeing as his face had been published on wanted posters as a mass murderer escaped from prison. And, even if one did not know this for a fact, his human form would've scared any average passerby into gripping their valuables just a little tighter; his face was gaunt, his long, untamed hair limp, and his piercing grey eyes clouded over with a fearful, predatory mistrust, not to mention, his apparel tattered and hanging limply off of malnourished limbs. He looked like a man who had walked through the gates of Hell and had now descended to Earth with a furious vengeance.

He wasn't, however, in his human form, and this only transferred the suspicion onto the other participant of the conversation. Quiet, polite, and reticent, Rodney Luckinbill was a familiar face in the neighborhood as a man who kept to himself, but was nice enough if one wanted to borrow some milk from him. He didn't seem to have any kind of steady job, but the vicinity didn't really care; their downtown neighborhood wasn't exactly the most glamorous place for anybody who wanted to make a name for themselves anyway. While his sanity was not in doubt, it might have definitely been so now as he spoke from his doorway to the large dog hunched over his doormat, a damp newspaper held between its teeth.

The dog, stripped of muscle as every stray tended to look in such an area of overcrowded inhabitants and unclean alleyways, gazed blankly at Mr. Luckinbill, with the air of an animal who knew he would eventually be given shelter if he behaved himself. Indeed, Mr. Luckinbill let out a stern sigh after studying its pitiable face for a while, and even went so far as to drop to his knees and scratch behind its ears. The dog whined hollowly, feebly flicking its dampened, muddy tail.

"Don't get my couch dirty," he told it flatly, but his tired face looked almost nostalgic in its grim countenance. It was almost as if he knew the animal intimately. He stepped aside, and the wet, dirt-covered black dog slunk quietly into the small flat.

No sooner had Mr. Luckbill shut the door of his tiny, withering flat that he heard a small pop and, turning around, saw a human man in the very spot the weary looking dog had been just moments ago.

They two men looked at each other calculatingly for a long time. Finally, Remus broke the familiar silence.

"Hungry?" Remus asked gently.

Sirius shook his head.

Aware that this was the first reunion since a year ago when Remus, in his werewolf form, had been tackled down by the very same black dog and driven into the Forbidden Forest in response to a situation that nearly resulted in the death of three students, the very man before him, and Professor Snape, and allowed for the escape of the traitor Peter Pettigrew, Remus spoke again with a loaded caution.

"Well?"

The circumstances of the reunion didn't seem to really bother Sirius however, who looked at his old friend wordlessly for a few seconds before answering. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse and grated, like he hadn't used it for a very long time. "Have you read the Prophet?"

Remus shook his head. He hadn't managed to acquire the last two days' copies. He felt himself tense up in foreboding however, because while he had expected that at some point Sirius would turn up at his doorstep in his animagus form, he didn't think it would be so soon or so sudden. If it was on Dumbledore's orders, something was obviously very wrong.

Sirius tossed the battered newspaper that had previously been in his mouth at Remus. He caught it deftly, smoothing it out before unfolding it, careful not to rip it at the spots where it was damp. Where Sirius had acquired this copy, he had no idea, the fact that he'd found it necessary to carry it all the way here lent it significant importance. Without permission, Sirius threw himself onto Remus's limp, worn armchair, the crusted mud of his boots scattering in debris across the coffee table. Remus gave Sirius a disapproving look before turning to the paper, and Sirius ignored it. Something in the familiarity of this exchange broke the tiny thread of strain that still distorted the air between them. But the dark foreboding remained. Sirius sat limply in the chair, hair falling over his eyes so that all that was visible through the dirt and grime on his face was his aristocratic nose and the grim line of his mouth.

The room was unbearably quiet as Remus read the front, his eyes flying across the page and his brow furrowing with each passing second. By the time he reached the bottom, his face was slightly pale, and he met Sirius's eyes with an equally matched distress. "Gods."

"I'd say," Sirius muttered darkly, picking at the arm of his seat.

"Diggory's son…but that's dreadful," Remus said faintly, slightly unsteady on his feet as his pale face continued to register shock. He closed his eyes and furrowed his brow in intense thought. "An accident? That's unlikely."

"That's because it wasn't an accident. Diggory was murdered," Sirius replied stonily.

Having collected himself, Remus folded the paper and tossed it to the side, his eyes fixed on Sirius. He walked to the couch directly facing Sirius and lowered himself on to it gingerly.

"How?" he asked simply.

"The cup was rigged as a portkey," Sirius said.

"Where did it lead to?"

"The graveyard where Tom Riddle Senior was buried."

Remus inhaled sharply. His eyes flashed, "And Harry…?"

"Yes, that's how we know. He reappeared on the grounds with Diggory's body."

Remus pinched the bridge of his nose, and the familiarity of this reaction made Sirius grip the armchair harder, bringing back painful memories of a time long gone in an entirely different world. Not noticing the impact of his action, Remus continued to pinch his nose in his usual expression of hidden distress and gestured to Sirius. "Explain."

Grimacing and pushing down the sudden constriction in his throat, Sirius launched into Harry's account of what happened in the graveyard, about Wormtail murdering Diggory, the Death Eaters, Priori Incantem…his throat tightened further when it came to James and Lily, and Remus pursed his lips and looked away, but Sirius ploughed on, determined to finish his story.

By the time he was done, the morning sun had migrated to the middle of the sky, the afternoon breeze making the flimsy curtains in the lounge flutter soundlessly like ghostly apparitions. The silence rang in the room. Remus had buried his face in his hands. Sirius sat back, fingering a loose thread on the old armchair. When Remus looked up, his face was worn and tired and the grey in his hair was more prominent than ever. It suddenly struck Sirius how old Remus really was, how old they were, how utterly broken their lives had become and how many years had passed.

"Voldemort is back."

The statement hung heavy in the air. Both men felt the grim foreboding of it. They remembered what the First War had been like, remembered like it was yesterday, because it had haunted their dreams and shattered their lives so completely, and taken from them nearly everything they had to live for. They remembered everything they had lost to the war, all the years that had disappeared in the darkness of the aftermath never to come back again, all the devastation, and all the pain.

And now, dark times had descended upon them once more.

* * *

J**uly 10th, 1995 **

**Monday 7:47 a.m. **

**The Tonks Household**

"What do you think, Dad?"

There was a thud as the newspaper landed on the center of the table, the black-and-white men in the picture on the front page shouting indignantly as all three toppled over onto each other from the impact. Ted Tonks looked up from his journal, eyebrow raised as his daughter continued to stare him down appraisingly.

"What do I think about what?"

Dora gestured vaguely at the newspaper. "This."

The paper was folded back and flipped to page 4, where approximately half the space was dedicated to a cover of Auror Scrimgeour's press release from the day before. It was basically the entire parcel and package that Scrimgeour had put together for the auror hearing, only, sugarcoated and embellished in big media words like 'justice' and 'security,' and tied with a garish ribbon of 'heartfelt condolences' to assure the wizarding population of Britain that indeed Diggory's death had been a legitimate one. It hadn't been Scrimgeour, of course, who'd been interviewed for the article, but a face that was nicer to look at and a voice that was easier on the ears. The Ministry's poster boy smiled dazzlingly from the quarter-page photograph that accompanied the writing.

Ted eyed the paper with the kind of wary mistrust he reserved for Tonks herself. "Do I have to think anything about it?"

His wariness increased tenfold as Dora leaned forward conspiratorially, slamming a ring-studded hand over the winning face of 'Jerome Crawley.' Her exuberance always put him on the edge for he was a rather peace-loving sort of man, and marrying into the Blacks itself had been exciting enough for him to last a lifetime. He could never keep up with his daughter, as fond of her as he was, not her thoughts, not her ambitions, not her hair, and even now as she grinned maniacally at him from across the table, ready to tell him exactly what she thought about 'this,' he sighed with the air of a man resigned to his fate.

"Go on, then," he said, settling back in his chair, grinning in spite of himself.

"I think the Ministry is lying," she said with surprising calmness. "I think they're feeding us crap, pulling one over everybody, if you will, because Dumbledore's theory has too much consequence involved. And. I don't think Cedric Diggory was killed by Barty Crouch Junior."

Ted eyed his daughter, picking absently at the tablecloth hanging of the edge of the table. In spite of himself, he frowned at her in curiosity, "Why?"

Dora tapped her lips thoughtfully. The kettle whistled feebly in the kitchen in those few seconds of silence. Dora lowered herself into her chair. "They say Crouch was trying to kill Potter, deluded into thinking he was following orders from You-Know-Who. Which makes sense, because he did try to harm Potter, it's why he disguised himself as Mad-Eye to begin with. If he was a mad lunatic out to kill people off the streets he wouldn't have gone through the pains of coming to Hogwarts covertly. That established, my question is, why would he wait till the third task to kill him?"

Dora leaned back, her chair balancing on its hind legs. "If I were Crouch, and I wanted to kill Potter, my primary aim would be to do so without being caught. Obviously. In which case, I'd want to either make sure it was pinned on somebody else, or that it was accidental."

She frowned. "Obviously, as Crouch, I didn't frame it on someone else. Maybe Mad-Eye. He did keep Mad-Eye alive after all, so that could've been his plan. Especially if I believed I was to kill Harry Potter on the orders of You-Know-Who. But that would be complicated, and doing so under Dumbledore's nose, since he and Mad-Eye are pretty familiar with each other..."

Ted watched Dora with amused curiosity. She often resorted to thinking out loud to him. Absently, she tapped her finger on the wooden table rhythmically. "Honestly, my best bet would be to kill him during the Tournament. If it were made to look like an accidental death during one of the tasks, it would be impossible to trace it back to me. So it makes sense if I were to rig the Goblet of Fire so that Harry Potter's name was chosen as well. After that, it would be easy. If not the first task, because that might seem obvious, I'd try to kill him off during the second."

Now Dora's penetrating gaze was on her father, and there was a triumphant gleam in it. "But I didn't. Why didn't I? What sense would it make to wait for the third task to try to kill Potter? Why, when I had the chance twice to kill Potter, why didn't I? Why the third task?"

"Perhaps he did try," Ted shrugged. "How would you know he didn't?"

"I don't, not really," Dora admitted. "But the probability of him failing to get Potter killed twice during two extremely dangerous tasks versus the probability of him not trying at all... you'd have to have really, really bad luck to not be able to get a champion killed during a task. And Crouch wasn't your average Joe wizard either, because it's not a walk in the park, being able to hoodwink the Goblet of Fire."

"So you're saying," Ted said, "that the Crouch had a specific reason to wait till the third task to kill Potter. Which means, you don't think it's driven solely by an insane homicidal urge or pure delusion."

Dora picked fervently at the tablecloth alongside her father. "I'm saying it doesn't make sense. Under his delusion of following You-Know-Who's orders, what was so special about the third task? What _actually_ happened in the maze, and why did Cedric Diggory end up dead? There's something fucked up about it all. Something happened in that maze. The Ministry is lying."

Ted debated internally over what to address first, his daughter's language or her brash declaration. He opted for the latter. "Heavy accusation you make there, kiddo."

"They're true." Dora said, sitting back in her seat and staring at the newspaper with dislike. "There's something fishy, in any case, and I'll get down to it, you'll see."

Ted shuddered, and it was too conscious a shudder to pass off as someone walking over his grave. It was the shudder of a man who looked away from his charge for a moment too long at the grocery store and had a bad feeling that when he turned back around the child would be gone. It was the shudder of a man who could almost feel his wife's gaze boring into the back of the neck, telling him to put in a word of caution to his daughter before she did something stupid.

"Er, Dora," Ted began hesitantly, "that's a rather serious statement to make against your employers."

Dora snorted in response. "Stupid bastards. If Fudge thinks they can hold their own against Dumbledore he's got one coming."

Ted almost snorted in agreement, but pulled himself back from indulging his daughter at the last minute. He cleared his throat and gave her a stern look instead. "Be that as it may. It's not a good idea to compromise your career on a whim."

"But you agree with me," Dora grinned.

"You never heard me say that," Ted said calmly, a hint of a smile on his face as he picked up the newspaper and disappeared behind it wordlessly.

* * *

**July 10th, 1995 **

**Monday 8:11 a.m. **

**The Yates Household**

"Gods."

'Gods' was quite the understatement. The place was in a mess, people swarming in and out of the tiny, worn-down flat that Tonks had walked past three times before she noticed it tucked away in a drab building behind an array of lavish suburbs. The press had already managed to arrive before she did, and cameramen from the Daily Prophet, the Barrington Post and the Wands Weekly snapped away with unchecked fury, the flashing lights assaulting her eyes with an almost seizure-inducing intensity. Tonks was surprised to note that even the Quibbler had sent a man; the press was all over it.

Not without reason, if their years of reporting had taught them anything about identifying the really gritty stories. Right now the Ministry was shaken, still trying to layer the problem with coatings of damage control that did nothing but hide the real facts. In the face of what Dumbledore was offering in explanation, any kind of crimes of violence against Muggles, while always topping the headlines whenever they did happen on such a scale, were all the more essential to account for now. She could see the reporter from the Prophet rapidly taking notes, nodding in response to what Crawley from the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes was saying. Made sense to avoid the on-field Aurors and take the angle of the office boys, if Fudge's influence over the Prophet wasn't a farce. Gingerly, she stepped past people, squeezing through masses of officials, healers and colleagues to get to the epicenter of the action.

"Tonks, he's out at that corner."

Tonks turned over her shoulder. The blond-haired girl in a beige overcoat who had tapped her shoulder pointed in a general north-east direction, towards the far corner of the room. She, at least, looked like she had gotten a night's sleep. It didn't seem like she had arrived on the scene much earlier than Tonks herself.

Tonks nodded at her colleague. "Thanks."

The girl nodded back. "I've been sent as the substitute. If you need anything, shout out. It looks like there's going to be a lot of paperwork."

She was smiling without amusement. Recalling the overview she'd received of the crime in the morning mail, the details of it fresh in her memory from having read it over on her way here, Tonks exchanged a look of grim foreboding with her colleague.

"Ta, Wendy."

"See you in a bit."

Indeed Tonks saw who she was looking for in the far corner of the room, and she grimaced further as she always did at the idea of having to work with him once more. He was surveying the scene with cool calculation, huddling over what looked like a blueprint of the apartment with an old bald wizard in baggy robes. Pushing the urge to hex his shiny head of black hair into a carnival toy, she attempted to concentrate on trying to recollect all the facts of the case she was dealing with.

Raymond Yates, age fort-three, banker at Gringotts and a strong advocator of Muggle-wizard equality and reforms for social security coverage for non-magic spouses of employees of the Ministry of Magic. He'd been a part of a political group that was pressing for the passing of this law for the last seven years. He'd recently been promoted, his first in ten years and a significant boost in his meager income. His Muggle wife, Bertha Yates, age forty, was a chef at a small Italian restaurant, and walked two blocks to work every day. His fifteen year-old son, Matthew Yates, was not born with magical abilities and went to a Muggle high school ten minutes away from where they lived. They were lower middle-class in terms of financial conditions, and they lived in a sub-par flat on the expensive side of town because it was in proximity to the old age home where Mrs. Yates' aging father was currently living, suffering from Alzheimer's, most of his memory gone with no recollection of his daughter or her family.

Less than twelve hours ago, the entire family had been murdered.

No signs of struggle. The house had yet to be given a complete strip-down. They were still testing for more descriptive traces of magical residue, but there was enough to prove that a magical intervention had caused these deaths.

The black-haired Auror looked up sharply from the blueprints as Tonks approached, fixing her with a look of critical aloofness. "You're late."

"By a margin of thirty-five seconds," Tonks replied coolly. "Update me."

"Actually, the press got here nearly an hour ago..."

"Just update me, Randall," Tonks cut in snappily.

Randall cleared his throat primly, face impassive. "They're interviewing the neighbors right now, I haven't heard from that unit. There's another unit whose talking to his Gringotts colleagues, but I haven't heard from them either. Once the information is accumulated we can head back to office and consolidate the paperwork. Right now I was looking at the blueprints of the apartment; Birch and I doing a more thorough magical imprint analysis."

He pointed at the bald man holding the paper next to him as he spoke. Analyzing for magical residue was the first course of action taken at a scene of crime that involved the use of magic. Every spell left a special sort of pattern that lingered in the air and surroundings as residual magic. A special Ministry units of workers trained to analyze these aftereffects of magical use and work alongside Aurors to help solve cases could read these magical residues almost like fingerprints, where each layer narrowed down the nature of the spell, hex, potion or curse that was used. Naturally, this was hugely useful in piecing together to sequence of events in a crime.

"And there was no sign of struggle at all? Nothing remotely suspicious in the way their bodies were found?" Tonks asked, frowning. If it was a hate killing, the murderers would've left behind a message, symbolic or scripted, in some form of the other. Simple murder without much incentive or motive was plain odd. The chances of a wizard breaking and entering the house of a harmless Gringotts banker, killing the entire family but leaving the bodies otherwise untouched didn't make much sense. From his profile, Yates didn't seem like the kind of man that had enemies hiding in bushes to gun him down.

Randall shrugged. "Take a look for yourself."

He reached into his coat pocket and tossed a small package of neatly stacked photographs, tied together with twine. Tonks unwound the binding, pocketing it, and sifted through the moving pictures.

"They've already moved the body, then?" Tonks frowned, holding up one particularly gruesome picture to the light, angled to capture the family of three sprawled dead in front the hearth and the wall behind them, right up to the ceiling.

"They arrived here three hours ago. They only just came back thirty minutes to eight to clear the bodies. We kept the fellow, Yates, however. Told them the usual, that his work was with our top-secret organization, and that we had a lead," Randall answered. He gave her a nettled look of condescension. "What're you ogling, there's nothing in that picture. We already checked."

"Well then I don't see the harm in me looking over it again," Tonks said, lowering the picture, and then sliding her fingers to reveal two of the same, hidden one behind the other, a small grin on her face, "especially if 'we' fail to notice that in the Muggle polaroid version of the picture you have here, the wallpaper behind the mantlepiece has flowers that are missing a petal."

Randall snatched the pictures out of her hand furiously, juxtaposing the two in midair as his eyes flickered between them. Birch, eyes wide, leaned in to look.

"There are seven in these instead of eight," Birch muttered in surprise, pointing at the still Muggle picture. Indeed the tiny navy flowers printed evenly and methodically upon a blue backdrop seemed not to match with the ones in the picture taken two hours after.

"Impossible," Randall drew in a sharp breath, "It's been tampered with."

"The picture? I doubt it. As offensive as disfigured flowers may be, I'd turn them into owl droppings if I wanted to pull one over you."

"The wallpaper," Randall snapped back at Tonks' cheeky remark. "The wallpaper has been tampered with!"

"But that means..." Birch stuttered, failing to complete his sentence.

Randall and Birch exchanged a look of dawning comprehension. Only for a brief moment they were frozen in surprise, before both sprung into action with renewed vigor, Birch rolling up the blueprints hastily and Randall shouting out to the nearby Ministry imprint analysis unit which was investigating a suspicious-looking magical instrument on a coffee table in the back of the room.

"Oi, we need two of you here, now," Randall barked. They looked up at him, exchange looks of surprise, and two of the workers, a man and a woman, stepped towards him. Both were dressed in blue jumpsuits, hands and feet hidden in gloves and shoes that glowed with an insulating charm which allowed them to move about without the fear of disturbing magical residue. The woman carried with her a bulky roll of parchment, quill tucked in behind her ear.

"Sir?" The woman asked, slightly annoyed at having been drawn away from her work.

"Was that wall inspected for magical residue?" Randall demanded, pointing at the hearth.

The man and the woman exchanged a look. The man answered, "Yes, it was, it's the first part of the house we covered."

"And was there trace of magical residue?" Tonks interjected.

"Yes," the woman said almost patronizingly, "There was a good amount, actually."

"That's pointless, there would be since the murder happened there. The killing curse is powerful enough to have masked whatever other traces that might have been left behind by other activities," Randall scowled darkly.

Tonks nodded sharply in agreement. She turned to the man and woman. "Would it be possible to re-inspect the area?"

The man shrugged and the woman sighed and nodded, neither believing anything useful would come out of the activity. However, they were bound to obey the Aurors on duty, and they followed Randall, Tonks and Birch as the trio approached the wall in question with tense briskness.

"Move aside," Randall demanded, and the circle or spectators, press reporters and Ministry workers widened with a wave of murmurs to allow them to pass. Tonks walked up to the wall, slipping her right hand into one of the gloves that the woman worker handed to her. Reaching out, she ran her fingers lightly down it.

The woman spoke from beside her in a professional tone. "If there's magical residue, it should generally be in the cracks and kinks."

Tonk's fingers dropped to the mantlepiece, where the wallpaper began to crack, cut off where the wooden surface met cement. "How about at the ridges here?"

"Good place to start," the woman said, swiping her own gloved finger against the junction. She retrieved her hand, looking down at it as she rubbed her fingers together. "Nothing different form what we first accumulated, mostly residue from the killing curse that got the three of them."

"Hm," Tonks hummed, staring thoughtfully at the wall. "But that doesn't eliminate the presence of other spells, right?"

The woman said reluctantly, "Well...no..."

Tonks gazed appraisingly at the wall. It didn't quite look suspicious, but the wallpaper had definitely changed, the picture was proof of that. Her attention again fell to the ridge of the mantlepiece where the wallpaper ended, and she picked at it till it began to chip off. The surface below was plain white. She frowned.

"So the paper hasn't been manually replaced," Tonks muttered to herself.

The woman stepped up suddenly beside her, swiping her finger again at the curve of the wall.

"Well, there's definitely residue," the woman muttered. A few feet away, Randall and the man were leaning in towards the wall, pointing at a spot where the wallpaper had peeled slightly, curling inwards. He seemed to have come to the same conclusion, judging from the way he jabbed accusingly at the patch of wall revealed under the peeling paper. As if feeling Tonks' gaze upon him, Randall turned and caught her eye. They exchanged a nod.

"I want this wall subjected to a complete, thorough investigation," Tonks heard Randall instructing the two workers as she pulled off the glove on her hand, handing it to the woman, "I want every ounce of residue accounted for. If there was a concealing charm put in place, it would leave behind enough residue for it to show up in the analysis."

"Yes sir," the man said. He turned and beckoned to some of his other fellow workers who had been watching them from the coffee table. Tonks, Randall and Birch stepped away, retreating to a quieter corner as they watched the Ministry workers swarm around the wall.

"What does this mean?" Birch whispered frantically the moment they were out of earshot, twiddling with the rolled-up blueprints in his hand.

"If the wall has been tampered with, it's not very possible that it was the work of the murderers themselves," Tonks said grimly. "The polaroid was taken by the Muggle police at about five in the morning, and the one we have with us, at about seven, before your or I got here. Someone external who had access to the area has tampered with it."

Randall looked sharply at her. "Watch who you're accusing, Tonks."

"Keep your pants on, I wasn't talking about you," she said in irritation.

"No, but you're getting carried away," Randall snapped. Birch gazed from one face to the other, lost. Randal had caught on to what Tonks was implying. The only people who had had access to the scene of the crime between the arrival of the Muggle authorities and that of the wizarding press were the Ministry workers themselves.

"You know I'm right," Tonks snapped back, incensed at his patronizing tone, "Just because you're too chicken to voice it-"

"You're so fucking childish, you know that?-"

"Yeah, you're real mature, arriving on time, what a hero-"

"Tonks."

Tonks whirled around in her irritation to see who'd called. Randall scowled and fell silent. They always did this, bicker like little children, ever since she'd first tripped him up outside the Charms corridor as a dare from Charlie Weasley back in her first year at Hogwarts, and the documented history of their momentous quarrels after that could fill volumes. It still made Tonks' blood boil remembering some of the nastier things Randall had done and she was pretty sure he wanted nothing more than to set her on fire for her equally acid retaliation.

_Stupid fuck, _Tonks growled mentally, as Randall patted down his immaculate black hair in the corner of her eye, the familiar animosity stirring in his impassive face. She hated the bastard. But she was stuck with him, like it or not, for their fierce battle to outperform the other since the moment they'd stepped into the same class in school had led them to pursue the same intense career, the same rigorous back-breaking competition to be the best in their field, and now, placed them in the same Auror unit, working under their mutual boss, Roy Sinha.

From the far end of the room, the very same boss was stalking towards her, looking somewhat nettled as his long, lanky hair fell into his thin face. Tonks winced, mentally going over every possibility behind his looking this irked, and wondered if he'd finally found out who had spiked his ginger at last Christmas's office party. Her habituated mind immediately presented her with a colorful set of excuses to use as he came nearer.

"Randall," he nodded curtly. "Situation under control?"

"Yes sir," Randall replied.

"Good. I'll hold you to it, then. Tonks, got a minute?" He asked, eyebrow raised. The collar of the stiff black macintosh robes he always made a habit to wear stood up around his neck, thick black hair blending with the spotless shoulders of the apparel. He looked tired, borderline sardonic, but that wry smile was a distinct characteristic of Roy Sinha. At least a foot taller than Tonks, gazed down at her appraisingly.

"Why?" Tonks asked.

"Because I'm your boss and it wasn't really a question. I need a minute," he said, grasping her upper arm and dragging her to the side of the room, weaving through cameramen and sleep-deprived investigators. Tonks stumbled and made an admonishing noise at her superior, glaring at him balefully. He gave no notice.

"Well what is it?" she asked flatly, dusting off her robes in indignation.

Sinha handed her a sheaf of papers, face stoic. "Your new assignment."

Tonks blanked out for a few seconds. "Eh?"

"You new assignment," Sinha repeated, waving the papers under her nose. She grabbed them and stared, reading the top of the page rapidly.

"Fergal Donaghey," Tonks repeated blankly. "What, that git who was witness to the Dominican Base robberies?"

"Upper management thinks you'd be good for the job," Sinha said, suddenly preoccupied by his nails. Tonks simply stared at him, dumbstruck. It was a simple locate and find job, the man wasn't even a dangerous criminal, just a small-time con artist who'd stumbled into something bigger than he could handle, and was now on the run from the Ministry, too afraid to share crucial knowledge he allegedly possessed.

It wasn't even a real case, there was nothing to solve.

"Rubbish," she said, tossing the file back at him, "I'm not taking on some rookie's first break, anybody on the benches can take this case. Why is it even still on the table?"

"Because they still haven't caught him," he said with slight annoyance, her disdain having rubbed him in the wrong way. He tossed the file back at her, which she caught. "He's important to some other people in upper management too, they have other cases pending till the Dominican Base Robberies is sorted out, so they want to get it wrapped up quick."

"And why me?" Tonks asked with an undertone of bitterness. Staring at the papers in her hand, she hazarded a guess that this was happening on Scrimgeour's orders. _Still see me as a threat, eh?_ Tonks felt a spark of smug satisfaction at this attempt to keep her too busy to further her investigation. It was definitely a frustration to her, what a bother to have to put up with this kind of ridiculous, unimportant drudgery, but at least she'd be able to get it out of the way fast. it wasn't a difficult case. Perhaps it could be used to her advantage if she played it right; extra resources and an excuse to use her badge for more fieldwork investigation would be pretty useful.

Still, it placed a cloud of irritation above her head. Sinha seemed to have sensed this, for he spoke with a placating tone. "Look Tonks, I'm sure it won't take much time, we already have leads. Get it over with and I'll try to divert any more cases that come your way."

Good old Sinha.

"Yeah, Yeah, I'll do it," Tonks muttered.

"Good girl," Sinha said approvingly. "We have new aurors in since last month. Bloody incompetent. Told one off for overlooking the murderer's hair under the carpet of the victim's house and he nearly peed himself. Ever since Moody got himself retired the place is a fucking carnival."

Tonks snorted out loud at the glowering pout on his face. "Don't go too hard on them. They've come in at precisely the wrong time."

"The right time," Sinha corrected dryly. "The Ministry's in chaos, you'd think they'd be thrilled to be given actual cases instead of being sent off to corner batty old women who've shirked paying their taxes."

He gazed out at the gaggle of reporters and investigators moving through the room in borderline pandemonium. "Get Wendy Snider to do the paperwork here. I called her in today specifically for that. I don't see why you can't work three cases at once so long as you can give me a weekly report of your progress on Dominican Base. Randall can handle this business."

That stung. Her's and Randall's long-standing feud had its claws deeply set in her ego. Tonks scowled darkly. "That'll make his day."

"Tonks, it's not a promotion, he's just working this case," Sinha rolled his eyes.

"You know as much as I do how much each case counts," Tonks shot back.

Sinha eyed her appreciatively. He placed a hand on her shoulder and gripped her with the camaraderie of one whose ambition to excel was just as fiercely consuming as hers. "You'll catch up. Mad-Eye didn't endorse you for nothing. But don't make this about you and Randall. It's not worth the competition."

He gave her a significant look. Tonks huffed, but nodded, knowing that if nothing, Sinha would put in a good word for her when it came to it.

"Watch your back, Tonks. Don't do anything stupid." Sinha said in parting as he upturned his wilting collar and buried his hands in his pockets. A spasm shot through Tonks at the unexpected warning from him, more accurate than he was personally aware of it being. It was almost like an omen, especially since she'd already finalized her next move just that morning after her conversation with her father. There was no working around it; while scavenging through old articles was a productive enough method of uncovering details of the happenings that immediately succeeded the death of Cedric Diggory, it was too slow of a process for her patience to make peace with. As the hysteria and mistrust and foreboding escalated about her inside the Ministry, outside the Ministry, even on the sidewalks where clumps of witches and wizards whispering urgently to each other, meeting in secret, eyes darting with an unnerved air under the blanket of the Ministry's façade of everything being under control, Tonks knew her leisurely side-investigation would not get her answers fast enough. It was the time for drastic action.

She would acquire the Diggory case file, even if she had to resort to breaking and entering to steal it.


	4. Breaking Bad

**Hello, folks. Reviews much appreciated, of course. The story should pick up its pace soon :) Do let me know what you think,**

**TheDailyPotterhead**

* * *

"Crofford."

It took a few seconds for his eyes to stagger to a halt from their rapid movement across the lines of the page and his mind to resurface from the book-coma he was so prone to falling into. Thoughts swimming with grindylows and African miengu, he blinked rapidly at the figure towering above his desk, casting a shadow upon his hefty tomb. Without further ado, he rose to his feet as his superior stood before him, hands behind his back and face impassive.

"Sir?" Bert asked in vague befuddlement. He knew the man, of course, who didn't. His name was legendary in the office, casting itself amongst the most skillful and respected Aurors of the department. Having entered the Auror Department at the age of nineteen as a young prodigy only just out of schooling at Hogwarts, he'd quickly escalated amongst his peers, most of whom had a few years on him, with a mere year of training and an unparalleled knack for solving the most complicated of cases. Dedicated to the Ministry and bent on climbing the ranks as fast and ruthlessly as possible, Sinha now, only a level below high-ranking officials like Kingsley Shacklebolt and Sturgis Podmore and within half the time it had taken them to get there, commanded the respect not only of his own task force of competent newcomers but the entire floor he worked on, even his superiors.

But that was not Bert's concern, really. He glanced over at Tonks' empty desk and then back at Sinha.

Sinha sighed. "Where's Tonks?"

Bert guessed at much. He was as clueless as Sinha was. "No idea, Sir. She hasn't come in to office yet."

A nettled expression came over his brown-skinned face. Sinha made a tutting noise and said, "If you see her, tell her I've been looking."

"Yes Sir."

Sinha nodded, and then turned on heel, black mackintosh robes billowing behind him in a fashion similar to his mane of black hair. Bert lowered himself back into his chair as he watched him go, speculating once more as he tended to do from time to time on just how suicidal Tonks was. Sinha was a terrifying presence, and if he, Bert, worked under that man, the idea of Sinha ruthlessly stalking the floor in search of him would've scared him shitless.

_Tonks_, Bert shook his head to himself. She did make it a habit to stumble into office ten minutes late every day looking like she'd ran through a landmine and fallen into a puddle of facepaint what with papers flying out of her bag, her tattered jeans, and eye-popping hair. But she never did miss a day of work, and in spite of her disheveled appearance, she knew exactly where what was, an picked up effortlessly where she left of as if she hadn't gone home for the night. To be sure, he suspected in all technicality, she probably didn't; her personal drawers in their cubicle were relatively empty, and he knew that her dedication to each case extended beyond the confines of her desk. She took her cases to the bedside and had them half-figured out by the end of the afternoon.

It wasn't like her to be this late. But there was always a first, he supposed. In any case, Bert didn't dwell on his absent friend for long, and almost immediately returned to his book, once more lost to the world of the murky underwater.

* * *

This is not going well, Dora thought grimly.

She glanced about the cubicle, mind suddenly running in all possible directions as her plan started falling apart. There was not much she could do now and she groaned internally in frustration at her failed attempt.

She had risked the gamble because she had been so _sure_.

Damn it all.

Dora straightened, throwing one last look around the room in a desperate attempt to make her visit worthwhile. It was a very neat office, floor spotless to a point where her reflection was clearer in these tiles than in her mirror at home, papers piled and stacked with precision atop one another to an error of a hair's width, hundreds of posters and photographs pinned across the expanse of the walls with apparent great attention to their perpendicularity to the floor; it all made Dora feel all the more agitated about knocking something over. Pictures of Sirius Black, his gaunt eyes frozen under her spell in order to hide her presence, were tacked up across the room, bordering the large world map, where little pinpricks of red glowed in clutters across the landmasses. There were no personal photographs on the desk, but that didn't really surprise Dora much. She hadn't touched anything on the desk really, mostly because there wasn't much to touch in the first place, and she had put all her hopes on the Blue Box she was currently hovering around.

Dora made a move to run her hand through her hair before realizing she didn't have any. She growled in frustration, pushing down the hysteria building up inside of her.

Stupid Dora. Stupid stupid.

She should've investigated further before coming here…always do your homework…Mad-Eye would blast her rear if he ever found out about this.

There was a sudden knock on the door that made Dora start violently as her heart attempted to make a suicidal dive into her gut. She stood absolutely still, praying that whoever had knocked would leave if she didn't respond. Her breath came in quick rasps, and she closed her eyes to get herself to calm down

There was a second knock that made her jump as her eyes flew open. A moment later, a woman's muffled voiced floated from the other side of the door.

"Sir, I noticed that you'd come to office today for a bit. Not to disturb you, but may I have a word?"

Her heart sank heavily. She weighed her options and realized she had no choice but to answer to door if she didn't want to rouse suspicion. If the woman had seen Tonks come in, she'd have to play her part. Straightening her deep blue robes and Auror badge, she cleared her voice and boomed, "Come in."

A brunette poked her head around the door. "Sir, there are some papers I want you to go over, if you don't mind."

Sirens were blaring in her head as she tensed up. Visual records of her presence here was all she could risk, if even that. Any paper that required her signature would be as good as a death sentence.

"I'm sorry…" _What the bloody shite was her name?_ "I was actually getting ready to leave. Came back for a file or two. Heading straight back home, you know."

The brunette nodded slowly, "Tomorrow then?"

"Tomorrow should be fine," Dora replied, clasping her hands behind her back to stop them from fiddling with hair that didn't exist. _Don't overdo the talking, Dora. Let her come to her own conclusions. Keep the lies open to interpretation_.

But suspicion, thankful, had not been roused. The brunette gave a small smile as she withdrew from the room. Dora could hardly believe her luck.

"Do get well soon, sir."

Tonks cleared her throat and gave a brisk nod. "Good day."

The secretary began to turn away. A sudden though crashed into her high-strung instincts, and Dora's mind raced as she abruptly blurted out, "Oh, and another thing."

The secretary paused at the doorway, looking over her shoulder.

"I'd prefer if you didn't mention that I was here ... to anybody, really. My files are being frozen today, I'm technically not supposed to access anything..." Dora said, gesturing vaguely towards the Blue Box, hoping the woman couldn't see the minute tremors racking her outstretched arm.

The secretary smiled secretively, apparently used to such requests of confidentiality from her boss. "It won't be a problem, Sir. Good day."

Dora mentally cursed herself as the door closed behind the woman, heart sinking. As thankful as she was that she'd been able to think quickly enough on her feet a few seconds ago, it was overshadowed by her dismay at the fact that it shouldn't have been _necessary_. She was hoping to peep in and slip out without attracting too much attention, and now she could add the brunette to the growing list of people who'd seen her.

What was that _blasted_ secretary doing here anyway? It was her day off, she'd even told her husband to book a reservation for lunch this very afternoon.

All this risk, and she didn't even get what she was looking for.

She gave a last sweeping look around the office, half-heartedly trying to identify any fingerprints she had missed to Tergeo and wondering if the stack of papers on top of the Blue Box had been placed at that angle when she had first stepped in.

Leave no evidence. If Kingsley Shacklebolt finds out you were here…if he realizes what you're looking for…

She didn't want to complete the thought.

Five minutes later, she stepped out of the cubicle as quietly as she could, closing the door gently behind her. At least the secretary served one purpose - the woman had access to his office, and her presence today accounted for the fact that someone other than Shacklebolt had entered the room, in case Shacklebolt decided to check if his office had been accessed.

The area was void of people. Knowing it wouldn't be so for long, Dora walked quickly down the hall, keeping her head low and her footsteps as quiet as she could. She concentrated on her feet and found herself making a resolution to get Kingsley Shacklebolt new shoes for Christmas.

She glanced up. The exit was down the corridor. Almost there.

She tripped.

One very unfamiliar, dark-skinned hand flung itself onto the wall in a reflex move to support her unfamiliar weight. The contact of the calloused palm against the smooth surface elicited a very loud thud and Dora winced as she swore internally, wildly wondering if she'd managed to cause a miniature earthquake with her cursed inability to maintain gravitational equilibrium.

The sound echoed. There was a rustling noise, and Dora's heart skipped a beat. Slowly, a head peeked out from one of the door along the wall. It was Middleton. "Oh hullo Kingsley, thought I heard you."

_You and the rest of the planet._ "Yes, erm, terribly sorry about that."

There was really no need to be worried, and unless somebody peeked under her robes, they wouldn't be able to tell her apart from the real Kingsley Shacklebolt. There were certain parts of her anatomy…well, point is, she didn't find it necessary to morph absolutely everything. It would only drain her energy.

And nobody was about to try to peek under Kingsley Shacklebolt's robes anyway, impostor or not.

With this newfound confidence, Dora looked Middleton straight in the eye and gave an authoritative nod.

Middleton eyed her indifferently, and then disappeared with a muffled 'well see you around'.

Dora let out a breath. She was an utter wreck, and she wanted to knock herself out for acting like a bumbling amateur. Goddamit, she was an Auror, this should be a walk in the park for somebody who'd be trained to sneak around dangerous areas and paid to analyze impostors and conmen.

Collecting her scattered wits, she covered the rest of the length of the hallway in at a brisk pace that bordered outright running, and fled out the exit before she did something really stupid and gave herself away.

It was late morning outside, and not too overpopulated outside the public lavatory from which she stumbled out to be noticed. She didn't waste any time in lingering about or enjoying the liberation of being out in the open again, but kept her head low and continued to put as much distance between herself and Kingsley Shacklebolt's office as was humanly feasible. Once she was in the sanctuary of an alleyway outside on the London roads, she morphed herself back to her pink hair and dark eyes, simultaneously transfiguring back her own clothes. She slumped against the wall.

That had not gone well.

It turned out that Kingsley Shacklebolt did not have access to the Diggory Case.

It was odd, and she had a rather good reason to assume Kingsley would be privy to the case file. He was high up enough on the administrative hierarchy anyway, in charge of his own operational unit to capture Sirius Black, and got along quite well with Scrimgeour and Fudge, as far as she knew. She didn't know Kingsley personally; he had been present as an assistant for most of her three years of training with Mad-Eye, but back then he had been looking over all fifty-seven auror recruits, so there was no reason to assume that he knew more about her than her name.

Damn, she had been so _sure_.

Yet somehow, though this new development baffled her, it simultaneously heightened her need for answers to an all new level. Kingsley hadn't been given access to the case. There was key information in this. It constricted the confidentiality of the Diggory case tenfold, eliminated a large legion of aurors that could possibly be in on the secret and leaving only three tiers of the hierarchy that could still have access to the file.

Why, why was the information so restricted? What was so secretive about one of the most important cases of the year that the Ministry felt it had to be banned from being talked about and swept under the rug?

By golly, Dora was going to find out.

Things have a way of coming back to us when we least suspect it, springing upon us unforeseen consequences and vindictive little vices that, by themselves, appear so harmless in their potence but are part of a much larger mechanism by which our very downfall, if left to its own devices, could be brought about. What's more, is that oftentimes under the influence of relief from immediate danger, we fail to look back over our shoulder and cover our tracks so as to not have the lion follow us out of the den we just managed to escape. And, thus hiding in those moments of oblivious relief, consequences swarm down upon us with their lethal claws and unavoidable malice.

Such was Dora's predicament as her day went by in comparative uneventfulness. Bert gave her a queer look when she entered their cubicle an hour and a half late, and told her that Sinha had dropped by. It did dawn upon her even when, on returning to her desk that morning after a quick word with her boss on punctuality on other important things such as the progress on her cases, she turned to her own Blue Box muttering 'Louis Bottle' in an absent sort of way as the file appeared at the top of the stack. No, it was only in the evening when she turned back to her Blue Box at the end of her day to return her Louis Bottle case file when it struck her, slapped her rudely awake, if you will, and then she was frozen in sudden icy panic as she gazed at the magical screen above her Blue Box, where a small list of names blinked out at her, 'Louis Bottle' topping it.

And she knew, at that instance, a similar small list was hovering above a similar Blue Box in Kingsley Shacklebolt's office, and topping it would be the name 'Cedric Diggory'.

* * *

"Bert."

The soft sounds of scratching quills and the humming of the bulletin updating itself on the far wall continued undisturbed. Dora didn't bother opening her eyes, but swiveled slightly in her chair, heavy combat boots propped up on her desk and hands folded neatly across her midriff.

"Bert."

The young man on the desk opposite to her deliberately turned a page of his heavy book, immune to aural disturbance of any kind.

"Bert. Bert. Bert. Bert."

The annoying chanting failed to inspire any response. Dora cracked an eye open. After a few seconds of deliberation, she stretched her arm and reached for a sagging satchel of Every Flavor Beans from her desk. She dug out a particularly nasty looking one from its depths and meticulously coated it with her tongue. Taking careful aim, she flicked it across the yard and a half separating her desk from her colleague's.

It smacked his forehead and fell with a disgusting squelch straight on his book. The man's face twisted in disgust.

"Eurgh, Tonks, that's sick!…not the book man, not the book," he complained, using his wand to cagily prod the sticky bean off of the tome on his desk.

"Yes well, desperate times and all," Dora said flatly. "You could pick it up and chuck it in the bin you know, instead of poking it like it's owl dung."

Bert made a face. "I'm not touching anything with your saliva on it." With a flick of his wand, he vanished the offending bean.

She rolled her eyes, "What are you, twelve?"

Bert looked pointedly at her.

"Hm," Dora hummed in agreement.

He fixed her with a disapproving look. "Well? What?"

She rested her head on the back of her chair, swiveling it slightly as she gazed at the ceiling, "Have you finished your case?"

Bert ran a hand over his tired face. "Are you honestly telling me this is why I got mauled by your salivated bean?"

"It was one bean Bert, get over it."

"No."

"_No?_"

"I meant no, I haven't finished," Bert replied, furrowing down in his chair and propping his book up to hide his face. Dora bit her lip pensively, fingering a pink curl as she carefully mapped the subsequent conversation in her head. It couldn't sound suspicious, no, she had to tread around suspicion very carefully.

"Hm," Dora hummed again, "Bert, listen, I've having a bit of a spot with mine. Think you can help me out here?"

Bert peered over his book. "What kind of spot?"

Dora pulled open her drawer, yanking out a fat yellow file which made a slapping sound against her desk as she ungracefully slammed it down. "I need a cross-reference. I'm pretty sure I've got this guy where I want him, but I still need a solid rationale to make the arrest."

"Well, how am I supposed to help you get a cross-reference? You have your source files, go pop open your Blue Box and pull 'em out."

Dora's fingers closed into a fist and crushed the curl she had been toying with. She spoke very carefully. "It's not in the Blue Box."

Bert frowned at her from behind his desk. "Not in the Blue Box?"

"No. It's actually…erm…it's outside my Supplied References."

Bert's eyebrows furrowed together. Dora yanked a strand of her hair hard. "You can't find anything from your Supplied?"

"No Bert, I really can't, I dug about the entire sodding box but there's nothing I can use."

"Well then how do you know you'll find it elsewhere?"

Dora leaned forward, smiling casually. Her answer was ready. "I actually read it off The Prophet the other day in reference to another crime. My guy's name came up as a minor roll, but if I can make the right connections, this'll wrap my case right up."

Bert closed his book carefully. "Maybe you should ask Shaklebolt about it. I suppose he could help…"

_"Tonks!"_

_Dora's own foot made immediate contact with the protruding foot of a nearby desk in response to the calling of her name and she made an odd gagging sound that had less to do with the toll gravity was taking on her and more to do with the wild banging her heart was doing inside her chest._

_Shacklebolt raised an eyebrow and made no attempt at chivalry, leaving Tonks to fumble and catch herself by grabbing onto the edge of the offending desk._

_She whirled around, her face blank and polite. "Er, that'd be me." She swallowed convulsively, her heartbeat sounding like a loud, clanging dirge to her own ears. Her hands were cold and clammy and she resisted the urge to wipe them on her robes._

_The game was up. He was going to accost her, arrest her, drop her in a vat of boiling oil and lock her in a cage full of half-mad hippogriffs…_

_He eyed her appraisingly. "You dropped a paper."_

_She stared stupidly. He was holding out a paper that had indeed fallen out of the sheaf she had tucked under her arm._

_Slowly, disbelievingly, her head spinning, she reached out to take it._

_His hand suddenly tightened on the paper, and as he leaned forward, she found herself staring at his sharp eyes feeling wildly like a deer caught in the headlights of a car. Her hand trembled as she abandoned her weak attempts to tug the paper out of his firm grip._

_His face was set in a grim line. "I suggest vehemently that you be careful."_

_Somehow, Dora thought dryly as she watched his broad retreating back with a half-dazed expression, she felt that probably had a much deeper implication._

"No," Dora said, a little too quickly. She did not want to risk a run-in with him again. "I don't want to bother the seniors with this. It isn't life-threatening or anything. I thought I'd ask you if you knew how…I mean, it's such a simple thing I need to get my hands on and I'll save myself about a week…"

She trailed off and ended with a little shrug. She leaned back easily in her chair, but her hands were clammy and she surreptitiously eyed Bert, who was looking slightly doubtful.

"Tonks," Bert said slowly, "I hope you're not…you know, going to try to do something…rash."

"It's my case, Bert," Dora said coolly, "It's just my case."

Bert eyed her, but nodded anyway. "If you say so. Anyway, I can't help you much in either case. You know you need special permission to pull files out that aren't in your Supplied list."

Dora sighed, but smiled internally. The conversation was going just as planned. She deliberately leaned back in her chair, swiveling it around as she stared thoughtfully at the ceiling again.

"Ever wondered where the Blue Room is?"

Bert grunted. "Who hasn't?"

"I suppose nobody knows," Dora said bemusedly, "I suppose only Fudge, Scrimgeour and the Blue Workers know."

Bert hummed in agreement, not really listening. Dora ducked down to read the title of his book. 'A Dark Arts Theory in Aquatic Evolutions'.

"Sounds sinister," Dora noted, squinting to see the names of the authors. Mortimer Trout and Remus Lu...

"I don't think Scrimgeour and Fudge are allowed access to the Blue Room," Bert said suddenly, lowering his book so that the names were obscured. Dora lifted her head with slow deliberation.

"That doesn't make sense Bert, Scrimgeour would need free access to all and every file in that room."

"His Blue Box is rigged that way," Bert said, swiveling around in his chair as he fiddled with the papers on his desk, "His box has complete access to all and any case files. It's as good as a key to the Blue Room."

"How do you know this?" Dora asked. Her hands were clammy again, and the agitation of expectancy was pooling into her stomach.

"I overheard a Blue Worker complaining about it. Said some shite about Scrimgeour not keeping 'em back in time," Bert said with a shrug.

"Oh," Dora said, her voice sounding faraway even to herself. As good as a key to the Blue Room. Complete access to all and any case files. Yes. Dora closed her eyes for a few seconds. This was good. Schemes began racing through her head as she toyed with this new information. She hadn't gotten anything out of Shacklebolt's office, and that had been a very rash move on her part. She was hanging by a thread of luck at this point, and all she could do was pray that Shacklebolt continue to dismiss her as a clumsy, ignorant rookie auror. Whatever she did next had to be done with the utmost caution on her part. One wrong step, and it would all blow up in her face...

"TONKS."

Rudely shocked out of her intense mental session, she nearly fell out of her chair with a loud squawk, knocking over her ink stand in the process and causing temporary pandemonium in the vicinity. The people from the cubicle next door tutted disapprovingly at this interruption. Bert calmly turned a page of his book, not bothering to look up. Recovering from her already frayed nerves, she shot the antagonist of look of pure loathing as he stalked towards her desk in his usual brisk, brooding fashion.

"Bloody hell Sinha," Dora said in acute irritation. "Give a girl a warning, won't you?"

Sinha gave her a most patronizing look as he stared at her sprawled figure on the floor that would've made Bert laugh otherwise. He watched Tonks get back on her feet with dark grumbles, and shook his head disapprovingly.

"Well what is it?" Dora asked testily, sitting on the edge of her desk and looking up at her boss. Sinha scratched his head and raised an eyebrow, surveying her from head to toe.

Dora raised an eyebrow in response. She repeated suspicious, "...What is it?"

"It isn't work related," Sinha explained, frowning at himself in an attempt to phrase whatever it was he wished to convey. He didn't look quite enthusiastic about the task, but more like a man who'd been blackmailed into taking up a duty he would otherwise hold a large amount of scorn for. "Er. An acquaintance of mine from the Department was asking after you."

Bert looked up in surprise, as did two or three other people from the cubicle next to their, peering around the flimsy separation with eyebrows raised and ears open. Dora snorted.

"If it's Taft tell him I don't have his sodding remembrall-"

"It's not Taft," Sinha said, all but rolling his eyes, "It's a fellow name Rhys Dao. Works with Evidence Analysis on the fourth floor."

Dora blinked. "I don't know anybody named Dao."

"I couldn't care less. For whatever unfathomable reason, he seems to have taken a fancy to you," Sinha said bitterly, like it was Tonks' fault he'd been put up to this preposterous task. "He's asked me to introduce him to you. I have no interest in doing so, but I agreed to pass on his intentions."

Dora gaped blankly at him, one of those rare moments when she was at a loss for words as murmurs and stifled giggles broke out across the adjacent cubicles. Bert suppressed his own laughter, but continued to watch the exchange over the top of his book.

Unable to hold back his exasperation any longer, Sinha rolled his eyes at the outbreak of gossip that was sweeping the vicinity. He huffed and said, "In any case, if you're _interested_, I have his number here for you."

He tossed a scrap of parchment on her desk. She recoiled from it slightly.

"Me?" She asked doubtfully.

"My thoughts precisely," Sinha said, the doubt in his voice painfully obvious as well.

"Got our eye on upper management have we, eh Tonks?" A middle-aged female coworker waggled her eyebrows as she peered into their cubicle from the other side of the wall behind Bert's table. "Aiming big."

"Dao _does _work upstairs, right?" Bert interjected with amused curiosity. Structurally, the floor above theirs was where the big guys had their offices, a clear hierarchical division within the three Department floors. This middle arena exuded an air of power; high-ranking, smartly-dressed men and women, senior to all but the Minster of Magic himself and the head of the Auror Office, Scrimgeour, both of whom took office on the topmost of the three-tier Department infrastructure.

The collective authority habituating the second floor however, itself could bring down the entire Ministry standing alone.

"Those guys are a real hefty," a pretty young freckled girl interjected with a giggle from across the room, "Powerful and everything. Real smart, respectable folks on the upper floors."

Dora rolled her eyes, recalling the growing legions of manipulative, power-hungry wizards infiltrating the Ministry. "Oh yeah, upper management is God's gift to women."

"Honestly," Sinha said sharply, throwing a look of disapproval at the women, who smirked and retreated into their spaces. Tonks almost smirked alongside them at Sinha's annoyance. "I haven't the time for galavanting about like this. Can we get on with what we really ought to be discussing at this point?"

"Right on, boss," Tonks said cheerfully, sweeping the piece of parchment into the drawer of her desk. "Full steam ahead."

Sinha gave her a withering look, asking himself for the upteenth time why he kept the snarky pink-haired witch in his team. His question was answered a few seconds later when Tonks leaned back to claw at her bag, tugging out a scroll of neatly-rolled parchment and tossed it at him with still-present cheeriness. He unrolled it, read the top of the page where in bold print, the words "**Preliminary Assessment of Fergal Donaghey**" were written.

"Donaghey last withdrew money of the twentieth of June," Dora explained, settling back on her desk as Sinha skimmed the document. "He took half of his savings and sealed off the rest. I'm guessing, with the decent amount he's presumably carrying with him, he isn't exactly going to be camping out in Knockturn Alley. My best bet, him being an ex-conman, is that he's hiding under on of his false names, preferably one that would allow him to carry his liquid money without drawing suspicion."

"That would narrow it down to three aliases: Quidditch gambler Russel Bean, thestral breeder Myers A. Chen, and Mr. Donny Bellamy, co-oner of the hotel chain called The Silver Hare," Sinha said, still scanning the report.

"My best bet is Bellamy," Dora said, "The city up north where he was last sighted is one of The Silver Hare's main headquarters. He'd have his own hotel security staff too, if the need be. I'll hand this in upstairs tomorrow and file a request for a on-field team. Hopefully I can wrap it up in the next two days."

There was a hint of pride in Sinha's reluctant smile as he handed the parchment back to her. "Keep me up-to-record with how it goes."

Tonks swiveled around on her chair, humming. Once she had Donaghey in a cell, she could finally concentrate on the Yates Murder and her own still-born scheme of acquiring the Diggory Case File. Being bogged down with extra work wasn't a new occurrence for younger Aurors in her position, and Donaghey's case was too easy to be true. By next week she'd have laid to sleep once and for all Scrimgeour's persistent suspicion of her and kicked Randall's ass on the murders to boot.

"Considering Dao?" Bert asked, watching Tonks spin in circles in amusement.

Dora waved his statement away airily, mood having lifted considerably since morning, "Have you _met_ me? Dates and I have a tragic and cumbersome history. I wouldn't even have the chance to show him my pig snout nose before he'd run away screaming. Want to grab some coffee?"

"Can't be worse than me," Bert said darkly, as Tonks hopped to her feet, stretching, "the last date I went to I sneezed in the girl's fish, flicked a pea into her cleavage and hexed her face fluorescent green out of fright when she asked me if I wanted her cherry."

Tonks burst out laughing.


End file.
